


The Guests

by BootsnBlossoms, stephrc79



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Scottish Highlands, scary stories to tell in the dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 07:21:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5119898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BootsnBlossoms/pseuds/BootsnBlossoms, https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephrc79/pseuds/stephrc79
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Can I help you?” the man asked.</p><p>“I’m dying,” Q answered bluntly, his voice a barely whispered rasp. “Or not. Again with the pain everywhere, so not entirely sure.”</p><p>“Ignore my friend’s poor attempt at humour,” Bond interrupted. The sense of familiarity and danger threatened to overwhelm him again, but there was no time for that — even if it was probably the result of underestimating his head wound. He’d sort that out later. For now, he had to win over a highlander. </p><p>“We had a bit of a hiking accident earlier this evening, I’m afraid,” Bond said as he shifted Q’s weight against him. “I thought we could make it to the next town for a hospital, but now I’m not so sure. I’d love to check him over if you have a spare flat surface and decent light to lend.”</p><p>~~~~~</p><p>A Halloween fic based on <a href="http://www.scaryforkids.com/the-guests/">Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark: The Guests</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Guests

**Author's Note:**

> A very special shout out to our _amazing_ betas [zooeyscigar](http://zooeyscigar.tumblr.com/) (aka [rayvanfox](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rayvanfox/)), and [kissofflame](http://kissofflame.tumblr.com/) (aka [flutterfyre](http://archiveofourown.org/users/flutterfyre/)). You guys are the best!

Bond knew he should be paying more attention to the road, but it was almost mesmerising, watching his own knuckles rhythmically change from their bloody, raw red to white and back over and over again. His head hurt, his side ached, and the too-familiar countryside was trying to draw him in with nostalgia and a sense of home. The setting sun painted the sky a fiery gold and chrysanthemum pink, streaked through with blue and staining the surface of little lakes scattered throughout the hillside. Gnarled trees, almost stripped bare of their colourful leaves by the autumn cold, stuck out from the layered ancient rock of the hills, the furthest branches hovering dozens of metres from the valleys below. Bond could almost hear his dad laughing as he threw him up into those trees, daring him to climb down without asking for help.

But there wasn’t time for sentiment now. There wasn’t time to focus on anything but the road, on getting home, on getting Q to a well-stocked first aid kit that included more than just plasters and painkillers. Which would be in his possession _right bloody now_ if it weren’t for Q’s damnable fear of flying…

The road in front of Bond waivered a little, and he blinked hard to clear it up. The slip-slide of warm blood tickled the fine hairs in front of his ear, but the thump of pain at his temple wasn’t that bad. Head wounds bled easily, and Bond was sure he’d managed to avoid a concussion. The quick little bastard he’d bested in the fight a few dozen kilometers back had knuckle dusters, but the blow to the head had only been enough to knock Bond down a few moments — just long enough to assault Q.

Pain spiked through his fingers as he gripped and released, gripped and released the steering wheel in an effort to keep his temper in check and not lash out at the pale and equally bloodied man next to him. The idiot who’d thought, for some reason, that it was a good idea to get in between two snapping, growling guard dogs.

Bond shot a glance at Q, taking in the steady thrum of his pulse under the nearly white skin of his bared neck, the way his dark hair stuck to the glass where his temple rested against the window, the way his face was drawn tight in pain.

“We need to stop,” Bond grunted, eyes focused on the sickly grey ribbon of road in front of him.

Q blinked a few times, but didn’t immediately respond. His breathing was laboured and his arms were wrapped tightly around his midsection.

It took him a few more rounds of shallow breaths — anything more would most likely be excruciating  —  but he finally turned his head just enough to catch Bond’s eye. “If we keep going, we can make it back to London by mid-morning,” he said, his voice scratched and ragged. “I’d rather not stop.”

Red, white, red, white. The steering wheel creaked under Bond’s grip as he tried not to snap. If he’d learned anything during his short association with his new quartermaster, it was that flagrant displays of emotion (and annoyance in particular) led to one of two undesirable reactions: ridicule or indifference.

“If you succumb to shock, which leads to _death_ ,” Bond sighed, “it would certainly slow the time table.”

Q huffed and turned to look back out the windshield. “I’m not going to _die_ , Bond.” He shifted in his seat, a slight _thunk_ echoing in the car as he rested his head back against the glass. “There are far too many things sitting in my queue for me to deal with. Which is why we need to get back to HQ _now_.”

“I’m afraid the Reaper doesn’t care about your importance nor how many times a day your calendar alerts you with that” — Bond tilted his head and frowned in aggravation — “screech for your attention.”

“And where do you suggest we stop, Bond?” Q snapped. He lifted his head and turned it in a pathetic gesture at the countryside. “In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s nothing but a vast space of _blackness_ out there.” He turned to face Bond, a sneer crawling across his lips. “I’m certain you’ve spent many a night camped out under the stars, but I’ve yet to have the pleasure.”

This time, one of Bond’s barely-scabbed knuckles split open again with the strength of his grip on the steering wheel. Yelling at damaged people was rarely useful or advisable, he reminded himself. He slowed the car, careful not to slam on the brakes and jostle his passenger, and put it in park. To buy himself a moment’s calm, he yanked the mostly-clean kerchief free of his breast pocket to dab at the still sluggishly-dripping head wound over his ear. Much to Bond’s relief, the pressure didn’t hurt and the blue cloth came away smudged but not soaked.

“Let’s make a deal,” Bond offered as he tucked the kerchief away again. “If I find us a place I deem suitable, you’ll stay the night with no arguments.”

Q narrowed his eyes just as he opened his mouth to respond, but whatever he was going to say died behind hiss of pain that escaped instead. His grip around his waist tightened before he finally settled back against the door.

“Fine,” Q muttered as he attempted to take a deep breath that only stuttered around his expanding chest. Bond narrowed his eyes, watching and listening carefully. Fractured ribs would be a _lovely_ mess to deal with.

“Fine,” Bond parroted, hiding a frown behind the sore hand he wiped across his mouth. The fact that Q agreed so easily was itself damn concerning, so Bond didn’t waste time. He turned, threw the car back in gear, and gunned it. It wasn’t hard to find shelter if one knew where to look, and Bond, despite his long absence from his home country, knew _exactly_ what to look for.

 

~~~

 

The house about thirty kilometers south of where he’d first stopped to negotiate wasn’t ideal, given its alarming lack of satellite dishes and nearby cell towers, but each passing metre made the press of the haunted countryside heavier and the rasp of Q’s breath shallower, his consciousness slowly slipping further away. One ill-timed pothole and Bond would have to conduct emergency medical intervention under the ruthless dark of a new moon night. Not a pleasant prospect at all. M would probably have his head.

Despite it being perched low in a valley, almost completely shrouded in evening mist, the house looked warm and inviting. Instead of the cold brown brick of Bond’s parent’s home, the house was painted white, a grey roof peeking out of the green hills around it. It was only one storey, but the windows were large and glowing brightly, and peat-scented smoke wafted lazily from the chimney like an invitation. Bond felt something old and wistful tug at his gut, but he shoved it aside, turned to Q, and weighed the pro of showing up with an obviously injured man versus the con of looking like a wraith with his latest victim.

Q’s fluttering eyes made his decision for him.

“Q?”

“Hmm?” Q turned sluggishly to look at Bond. “We back in London?”

“Not exactly. I’ve found a place for us to patch up.”

“Oh?” Q followed Bond’s gaze, finally noticing the house just outside the car window. “Oh. Right. Sleepover.”

“Right,” Bond muttered, yanking his seat belt loose and throwing his door open. Compliant Q was definitely a bad sign, he thought as he crossed to the passenger side door. He braced himself to catch Q if he fell out, and pulled the door open slowly, arm braced for impact.

“Shit,” Q muttered as he did indeed start to slide out of the car. At the last moment, he reached out and caught himself on Bond’s shirt. “God, Bond,” he whimpered, his head coming to rest on Bond’s chest, his grip tightening around the once-white linen. “How do you do this on a regular basis? Everything hurts everywhere.”

Bond thought about his own injuries, about the cuts and bruises that hurt like hell but were part of how he knew he was still alive. He thought about the wound still sluggishly bleeding at his temple, quiet and painless now but sure to scream for attention and paracetamol in the morning when the adrenaline had finally worn off. He thought about the aimless drift of unoccupied time after recovery and purpose, when he’d break himself down in the gym to build himself up and _feel_. And not be left to his thoughts.

“It’s complicated,” Bond said as steadied Q, one hand on Q’s bicep and the other at the nape of his neck. He gave Q a moment to catch his breath and stroked the soft curls over his spine as he waited. Despite his frail appearance, under Q’s trendy nerd chic and tight posture was a runner’s lithe and muscular body — taut and heavy as hell. Q’s warm breath against Bond’s chilled skin felt reassuring, but Bond moved hesitantly as he helped Q stand. He slipped one arm around Q’s back, trying to feel out injuries as he readied Q to move towards the house.

“What are you looking for?” Q asked as he weakly tried to bat Bond’s hand away. “I told you. All the things hurt in all the places. I think that means everything’s broken.”

Bond chuckled and slipped his arm around Q’s waist, careful to hold him up by the hips. He swung Q’s left arm around his neck, draped his arm supportively around Q’s shoulders, and took a careful but sure step towards the house. “Believe it or not, pain comes from more than just broken bones. Your ability to still be contrary, however, says great things about your lack of serious injury.”

“Bond, I promise you, that were I on my deathbed, and as long as you were around to hear it, I would be contrary to my very last breath.”

“Careful, Q,” Bond teased, tightening his grip on Q as he slipped just enough in Bond’s grasp to be alarming. “That sounds a bit more like an invitation than perhaps you meant.”

Q snorted. “Everything sounds like an invitation to you, Bond. It’s a good thing —” His words cut off as Q stumbled over God-only-knew what, his feet giving out from underneath him. He grabbed hold of Bond’s hand on his waist before he could completely tumble to the earth and cried out in pain.

“Right,” Bond mumbled, grimacing. He hefted Q into a more vertical position, tightened his grip, and lifted. The muscle pull from his shoulder sent a sharp pain lancing through the wound at his temple, and the world swam for a moment. Bond didn’t let it slow him down, though —  he needed to get Q inside and off his feet _now_. As he pulled Q closer, Q’s soft keen of pain turned in a whispering plea of _please_ over and over again, like a prayer.

The walkway to the front door was mercifully short, and the pavers beautifully flat. Bond made it up the handful of stairs to the thresholdin a matter of moments, not caring that Q’s shiny new shoes were leaving a pair of black scuff marks over the wood. Ignoring his ragged breath and desperate pleas was a bit harder.

Bond kicked the door a few times in the best imitation of a polite knock he could manage. The wooden door rattled on rusty but sturdy hinges, and Bond calculated how much strength he’d need to break inside. It would be easier to go through a window, but he’d have to set Q down (who clearly couldn’t stand on his own) to do it. Forcing the door would require more force, but with less risk of jostling Q. Q, who at that moment chose to stop breathing.

Bond clenched his fingers in the frozen wool of Q’s coat as he let the world wash away but for the sound of Q’s struggle for air. After a too-long silence, Q’s breath hitched in and out, fogging in the unforgiving Scottish air. _Actual_ breathing was slowly becoming a thing of the past, and Bond gritted his teeth against a scream of frustration.

To hell with Q’s protests; Bond was perfectly happy drugging him unconscious and flying directly to London.

Just as he was wondering about the state of his mobile’s battery, and whether it had survived the brawl at over that stupid record-size piece of Baskerville tech in the lab, the door swung open to reveal an ancient-looking gentleman with wide eyes and an open mouth. Bond’s vision waivered for a moment, and his fingers twitched for a gun that wasn’t there as a sense of familiarity — and fear — washed over him.

“Can I help you?”

the man asked.

“I’m dying,” Q answered bluntly, his voice a barely whispered rasp. “Or not. Again with the pain everywhere, so not entirely sure.”

“Ignore my friend’s poor attempt at humour,” Bond interrupted, unwilling to focus on Q’s idiocy. He blinked hard to clear his vision and instead focused on the man in front of him. He was thin and tall but had the round, ruddy face of someone who spent too much time out in Scottish weather with too-deep glasses of spirits in their hands. He was dressed in cheap blue jeans and a fraying blue cardigan, and his ears stuck out from under his pageboy cap, red-tipped and flush with warmth. His wide cheeks dimpled as his mouth opened in a hesitant smile. The sense of familiarity and danger threatened to overwhelm Bond again, but there was no time for that — even if it was probably the result of underestimating his head wound. He’d sort that out later. For now, he had to win over a highlander.

“We had a bit of a hiking accident earlier this evening, I’m afraid,” Bond said as he shifted Q’s weight against him. “I thought we could make it to the next town for a hospital, but now I’m not so sure. I’d love to check him over if you have a spare flat surface and decent light to lend.”

The concern in the man’s eyes was overly warm, and Bond flinched away from it. Perhaps it was the starlight that blurred the man into something indistinct and familiar — that look reminded him of big hands over skinned knees and warm glasses of milk after nightmares. Fucking Scotland. God, he hated coming back here. He was _flinching_ , for Christ’s sake.

“Yes, of course,” the old man offered. If he’d noticed Bond’s reluctance to meet his eyes, he didn’t show it. “Whatever you need, I’m more than happy to help.”

“Thank you,” Q answered, beating Bond to the punch. Then he passed out.

Bond huffed a little under the now completely dead weight, and grimaced at the old man before hoisting Q over the threshold and into the house.

“Who’s at the door, dear?”

Bond turned to see a woman walk through an interior archway. Shorter than her companion by a bare inch, she had chin-length hair that had probably once been red and now was faded to an orangish blonde, a strange compliment to blue eyes so light that they were almost silver. Her jeans and a cardigan were worn and comfortable, though Bond couldn’t tell the colour under the oversized black knit scarf she had wrapped over her. She stopped in her tracks at the sight of Bond and Q, expression flickering indecipherably.

“Oh! Hello, there,” she said, wary expression getting darker as her eyes took in the mess of the two men. She started to walk towards them, only to stop after a single step. She focused on the unconscious tangle of Q pressed protectively at Bond’s side before narrowing her eyes at Bond’s bloodied head. It throbbed painfully under her gaze, and Bond found himself wanting to hide from it.

“Are — are you boys all right?”

“Not in the strictest sense,” Bond said, hiding his paranoia and curiosity behind his best little-boy-guilty smile. “We took a fall a few metres from an unstable outcrop while hiking in the hills. Your husband says you have a flat surface and a light I can borrow?”

“Well, we have the dining table...” She turned to eye her husband curiously before turning back to watch Q. “Is that what you meant?”

“Absolutely.”

Bond peered across the sitting room, trying to catalogue its contents, exits, and potential weapons. It seemed to be small and comfortably arranged with thick rugs and overstuffed furniture, but the longer Bond stared, the more the room seemed to flicker in odd shades of desaturation. The warm glow of a fireplace tried valiantly to cast sepia tones over the dining area, but the dark corners of the room remained hidden. Bond’s head throbbed with irritation and the effects of his injuries, and he resisted the urge to drop Q and conduct a thorough search just to ease his own mind.

“Is that Moine rock?” Bond asked, nodding towards the fireplace as he dragged Q toward the heavy oak dining table.

The woman smiled at him, wide and pleased. “Why, yes it is. How did you know that?”

Echoes of six year old laughter and a tiny, pale hand pressed over the lines of sediment that superimposed themselves over Bond’s senses, and he only barely managed to stop himself from shaking his head to clear it. He tried to focus on the smell of the burning wood, the sparkle of the glass chandelier, the flutter of Q’s heart under his arm.

“My name is James, by the way,” he said, stopping just at the edge of the dining area, chastising himself for not easing the tension with his usual introduction sooner. “James Bond.”

“What a lovely name,” she commented, the smile more than reaching her eyes despite Bond noticing how far away they looked. It was only a moment before she turned them on him. She held her hand out, and Bond took it. He worried that his recently reopened cuts might bleed on her, but he kept his grip light enough to avoid drawing attention to his hand.

“You can call me Nicki. No one actually calls me by my full name these days. I think it’s out of style.” She shook her head, her smile turned rueful. “Lord only knows where they get _Nicki_ from, but well...” She seemed to preen at some unseen thought running through her mind. “I must admit, it does make me feel sophisticated.”

“A pleasure, Nicki,” Bond said with a distracted smile as he looked around. There were dozens of small photos in thin bronze frames decorating the wall behind the table, but he didn’t bother looking at them long enough to register more than the fact that there seemed to be at least one from every decade since the 1800s. “Would you like to put plastic over the table first?”

Nicole didn’t immediately respond, her gaze focused intently on Q’s slumped form. Her expression wavered between genuine concern and intense curiosity, as though she’d never seen anyone like Q before. But as far as Bond could tell, there wasn’t anything particularly odd about Q, other than the blood that was quickly drying on his face.

It felt like an eternity before she finally shook her head and looked up at Bond. He was tempted to rush her, to insist that she make up her mind before Q’s shock slipped into something less easily fixed, but he just grit his teeth instead.

“I don’t have plastic, but if you’d feel more comfortable, I can put an old sheet down,” Nicki finally answered as she glanced back at the table in question. “Would that do?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Bond said, shaking his head. The house was clean and smelled faintly of solvent; he was more worried about staining their table than protecting Q from contagions. He hefted Q to get a better grip and lowered his voice. “All right, Q. I’m going to lift you on the table now. It’s going to hurt, but then you get to lie down for a bit. Fair trade?”

The slight murmur that escaped Q’s lips wasn’t exactly consent, but Bond would take what he could get. He shifted Q so he was braced against the edge of the table, then unzipped his anorak and tugged it off his shoulders with as little jostling as possible. Bond rolled the wool up as best he could with one hand and slid it to the head of the table. Then he lifted Q bridal-style and gently laid him out, head pillowed on the coat.

“Could I trouble you for some warm water and a clean flannel?” Bond asked, eyes tracking the rise and fall of Q’s chest as he loosened his tie.

“Absolutely,” Nicki answered. She turned towards the kitchen, a little room just out of sight behind an arch on Bond’s right, and he tamped down the urge to follow her. Q’s face was pale and slack under the dim glow of the chandelier, and Bond was more worried about that then whatever weapon Nicki might be digging out of her silverware drawer. He slipped two finger tips at the pulse point just under Q’s jaw and used the momentary silence to count his heartbeat.

“Q?” Bond prompted, listening to the rustle of Nicki rifling through cupboards and turning on the tap.

“Bond?” Q whispered, strained and hollow. “Where are we?”

Bond slipped Q’s tie free from his collar, then started unbuttoning his shirt. “Still the house in highlands. You’ve only been out for a few minutes.”

Q slowly lifted his head, gazing at his surroundings. “So, I’m not dying? I thought I was dying.” He laid back down on the makeshift jacket-pillow and turned to smile at Bond. “It’s good that I’m not dying.”

“For once, you and I” — Bond huffed, finishing with Q’s buttons and pushing his shirt open — “are in complete agreement.”

The skin beneath Q’s clothes was even paler than his face, lightly speckled with moles from Q’s neck down to his waistline. Before Bond could get lost in wondering whether those moles continued into other, more interesting places, the purpling contusion that was blooming over Q’s right side distracted him. The bruise had appeared in an alarmingly short period of time, and Bond grimaced as he waved his hand over it.

“This is going to hurt,” he warned, but he didn’t give Q time to object before he started pressing against the skin to feel for breaks.

Q keened abruptly, his back arching off the table. “Bond, stop!” He reached out, trying to grapple with Bond’s hand, but the tight lines around his eyes made it clear that Q couldn’t focus on anything more than the pain.

It was easy to grab Q’s wrists in one hand and pin them just above Q’s head. It was easy to swing a leg up and straddle Q’s thrashing legs. It was easy to let military-grade detachment come out to play, subduing and dominating with a practiced swiftness and brutality Q’s smaller body couldn’t compete with. But something churned inside Bond as he continued pressing down on Q’s fragile bones, and he rushed the process just enough to be hasty without losing thoroughness.

“Will he be alright?” Nicki’s voice was right in Bond’s ear, and he jerked away from it. How the hell had he not noticed her return from the kitchen? He cursed his inattention as he glanced back, and sure enough, she was standing at the edge of the table just behind him. Q still struggled beneath him, but Bond ignored him as he checked the contents of her hands. She held up a damp rag, water dripping slowly from the corners, and gave him a placating smile. “I brought the flannel you asked for, dear.”

Bond wiped away the sweat that had started to collect on his forehead before he reached out to take to flannel. “Thank you,” he murmured before turning back to Q, who had fallen back into quiet acquiescence now that Bond was done prodding.

“Good news, Q,” Bond said quietly. He dragged the flannel over the angry red ridge of Q’s cheekbone and smiled softly. “You’re not dead.”

It was then that Q finally cracked an eye open, an eyebrow perfectly arched. “You’re not the type... to deliver good news.” He took breathed in before continuing. “That might be — nearly proof enough... that I’m dead.” He closed his eyes again, tucking into a smile.

Bond laughed and shook his head. “You’ve caught me out. We didn’t make it out and apparently you subscribe to Sartre’s version of the afterlife.” He pulled the flannel from Q’s face, refreshed it in the bowl, and started working on the blood on Q’s hands.

“Well...” Q hummed and smiled, his fingers curling in and out around Bond’s hand as he worked. “That would imply I think of you as Hell, and I assure you. I do not. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“You say that now,” Bond said, ignoring the rising tide of warmth that threatened to steal what little focus he had left. “But I haven’t even begun to wrap your ribs yet.”

“Well, you know, as long as it’s you and not some stodgy A&E worker —”

“Not that it would do him any good.” Nicki’s breath was practically in Bond’s ear, and it was so unexpected and disorienting that Bond was halfway to drawing a gun that wasn’t there before he could stop himself. How the _hell_ did she do that? There were only two people who could sneak up on Bond, and nothing about Nicki screamed Russian assassin.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, and rocked back to rest his weight on his heels. He wrung the flannel over the bowl and pressed it to his temple, resigning himself to an MRI when they finally got back to HQ. “You startled me.”

Nicki laughed quietly before taking a step back. “Apologies, my dear. That was not my intent.”

“Well,” Bond shrugged, grateful that Q was still too tired and distracted with his injuries to notice Bond’s slip. “You should take it as a compliment. I’m not easy to startle.” He gently climbed over Q to dismount the table, clutching it for support as he mustered a smile for Nicki. “He seems to be all right. I didn’t feel any breaks, though his trouble with breathing suggests something worse than bruising. Fractured ribs are torture in their own right, but there isn’t anything to do beyond wrapping them and letting them heal.”

Worry crossed her features as she reached out, only to abort the gesture. She turned an apologetic smile on Bond. “Well, we don’t have much in the way of a formal first aid kit, but I’m sure I have bed linens, if that would suffice?”

“Perfect,” Bond agreed, giving her a grateful look. “Thank you.”

With a soft smile and perfunctory nod, she turned and strode off.

“Who was that?” Q rasped.

“Her name is Nicki, lady of the house,” Bond said, shaking his head. “Someone with Alec and Natasha’s gift for sneaking up on me.”

Q snorted, though it sounded more like a huff in his injured state. “All depends on how the sneaking is being done to sneak up on you.” He blinked and turned to look at Bond. “That made sense in my head, I’m sure of it.”

“And here I was thinking I was the only one in need of an MRI,” Bond laughed. A creak alerted Bond to someone coming up from behind him, and he twisted to see the old man smiling softly from where he leaned against the wall, arms folded over his chest. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Andy,” the old man said, shifting to stand away from the wall. A corner of his mouth twitched. “Nice to meet you.”

“Kind of you to say, but I’m not sure our abrupt interruption of your quiet evening counts as ‘nice’,” Bond chuckled. He straightened, wiped his hands on his less-than-impeccable trousers, and turned to fully face Andy. He took a few steps to stand within arm’s reach and held out his hand. “James Bond.”

Andy’s grip was strong without being crushing, calloused and rough with years of hard work. Bond froze when their skin made contact, a surge of connection sparking through their hands. A thousand memories flooded Bond’s mind — memories of learning to tie knots, to make shapes from dough, to use power tools, all with gentle but firm guidance. Bond withdrew his hand quickly, forcing a smile to hide his shock. Fucking head injuries and haunted Scottish mists.

“Nice to meet you, James. And we don’t mind the interruption,” Andy offered, expression earnest and somewhat amused. Then he leaned forward and lowered his voice, a puckish look replacing his grin. “In fact, I rather enjoy the break from monotony. You won’t believe how dull silence can be if it lasts long enough.”

Bond laughed and straightened, sparing a glance for Nicki as she came back into the room, a thick, faded flannel sheet in her hands. “I hope someday to find out,” he admitted.

It took only moments and a relatively small exertion of force to wrap Q’s ribs. When Q passed out for the second time, Bond retreated to the bathroom to clean and deal with his own scattering of painful but superficial wounds. He kept the door cracked just enough to hear the movements of his hosts and see them if they got too close to Q, without giving away the fact that the shrapnel, knife wounds, and impact injuries were more human-made than mountain-made.

Andy and Nicki had interrupted once to offer Bond a stack of warm, dry, and _clean_ clothes. It took only moments to change, then rouse Q and help him change. Before Bond had a chance to wonder whether he should call MI6 for a ride, he was settled on the couch in the sitting room, Q leaning heavily against him as he sipped scotch and basked in the warmth of the fire.

“So what brings you boys through this part of the highlands?” Nicki was sitting in the chair opposite Bond, even though he _swore_ the chair was empty just a few moments before. He spared a glance at the drink in his hand and debated the merits of drinking with a head injury versus the warmth and relaxation stealing the tension from his muscles. With Q tucked securely at his side, the single malt hitting his bloodstream, and the exhaustion creeping in over the subtle torture of his headache, Bond was feeling… safe.

He set the scotch down, thinking perhaps it was time to stop drinking. “We’re on our way back to London from a job,” he said before his brain could catch up with his mouth. A tiny corner of his mind screamed in horror at what he was doing, but he ignored it and tugged Q closer. “It’s quite a drive, but my partner isn’t a fan of flying. Not that I mind; I grew up here and occasionally enjoy reacquainting myself with the scenery.”

Nicki smiled serenely at him. “It is quite beautiful, isn’t it? My husband and I are from here, you know.” She turned to gaze out the window, the sky a black ink bleeding across the heavens. Her voice grew distant as she added, “We raised a boy here, too, though we never got to see him grow into manhood.” She turned back, a frown creasing her brow even has she stared him down. “He would have been about your age now, I think.”

The flash of could-have-been was nothing new, though it felt quite visceral in the moment. James, a grown man — perhaps an architect, or an engineer, or maybe even still a sailor —  bringing his lover home to meet his parents. Coffee and biscuits and gentle teasing would follow. There would have been plans for future adventures, perhaps even chatter about the shifting laws around marriage equality.

Bond hated death in that moment, the three of them heavy with their grief and the heartache of a future none of them could have.

“I’m sorry about your son,” he said, blinking away the fruitless vision of what could have been. “I lost my parents. They would have been about your age now,” he said, staring into the warm brown of his glass where it rested on the table  rather than at the expressions of his companions. His heart started beating faster as the nature of what he’d just said filtered through the pleasant haze of warmth. He didn’t talk about this. He _never_ talked about this. What the hell was he doing?

Nicki didn’t seem to notice the way Bond faltered, though. Distress flashed across her eyes and she reached out, though she seemed to know not to touch him. “You poor boy. How old were you?”

“Eleven,” Bond found himself answering. “I went to stay with my aunt for a little while, then to Eton, then to Fettes…” Bond smiled to himself. “My father’s college, in fact. I haven’t spent much time in Scotland since then, though I was back last year for a memorable few days.” The smile vanished and Bond changed his mind about the scotch and leaned forward, careful not to jostle Q more than was necessary, to retrieve his glass.

It didn’t help though. Q reached out and smacked him lightly on the leg with a mumbled, “Stop moving,” before settling back down and drifting right back to sleep.

Nicki smiled, her eyes fond. She nodded in Q’s direction and asked, somewhat bluntly, “Is he someone special?”

“On more levels than you can imagine,” Bond chuckled, smirking as he brought his tumbler to his lips. “Perhaps he could be. Or will be. But it’s hard in our line of work, getting close to someone. And unwise.”

“It also sounds lonely,” she pointed out. “And maybe just a bit sad. Everyone needs somebody.”

Bond nodded, smile unconvincing and halfhearted at best. He looked down at Q nestled against him and barely resisted the urge to stroke his hair. “I had someone, once,” he admitted quietly. The ghost of Vesper seemed to hover just behind his shoulder, for once not judging or accusing — just letting him speak. Nicki’s posture was relaxed and comfortable, open and sympathetic, and Bond couldn’t find it in himself to lie about this to her. “She was perfect for me. Exactly the woman I deserved.” His self-deprecating laugh was short and bitter, and he tried to wash the taste of it out of his mouth with the scotch.

“So where is she now?” The question was quiet and laced with sympathy, but hesitant, as though she knew to be afraid of the answer. And rightly so.

“Dead,” Bond replied flatly, the burning resentment at the unfairness of it all just as strong as the burn of the alcohol. His parents were dead. The first and last woman he’d loved was dead. M ( _his_ M) was dead. Even Q had barely escaped the same ending tonight, and they’d just begun entangling themselves. He slammed the last finger of whiskey down to swallow back his anger, pushing it back into his core where it belonged.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she responded, quiet and understanding. She shook her head. “Really, I am. I didn’t — I shouldn’t have pried.”

Guilt crept up in Bond and he shook his head ruefully. “I’m sorry. This isn’t like me, letting ghosts creep in the edge of my memory.” He held up the empty tumbler and gave her a soft smile as he shook the glass, as if a few ounces could actually affect him. “What proof is this, anyway?”

“Around eighty, I believe?” She got up and walked over to the bar, where the bottle was still sitting. “It’s MacLellan 25,” she said as she picked up the bottle and scanned the label. “Ah, yes. Eighty-six,” she announced, giving the bottle a light tap. She turned to smile at Bond. “Would you like a refill?”

“Yes, he would,” Andy said as he entered the room. He groaned as he settled on the couch across from Bond, bones popping audibly as he sank into the soft cushions. He gave Nicki a look and waited until she was refilling Bond’s glass before continuing. “Room upstairs is a bit dusty, and perhaps a little squeaky in the walls from other residents, but the bed is soft and the sheets are clean.”

“Sounds heavenly,” Bond admitted as he took another sip and sank just a little deeper into the cushions. Any thought he’d had of leaving tonight had long since vanished in the haze of warmth and safety. Quite against his best intentions, his free hand slipped from the back of the sofa to fall around Q’s shoulders, and contentment burned through him as Q snuggled further against his side. He didn’t deserve Q, and Q certainly deserved a whole lot better than him, but it didn’t stop the low hum of pure want that sang under his skin.

“I wouldn’t quite call it heaven,” Andy shrugged, watching Bond with hazy eyes that didn’t hide his sharp observation. If Bond were anywhere else, in any other frame of mind, he’d mark him as a possible enemy. “Especially this time of year.”

“I love Britain in the fall,” Q quietly announced, almost out of nowhere. Bond looked down to find Q somewhat conscious, staring at nothing. “Most people don’t like the wet and the cold, but I think rain is beautiful.”

Something shifted, Bond’s perception of Q cracking as he thumbed the soft skin behind Q’s ear. Q let out a soft sigh, but other than that, he didn’t move. Bond narrowed his eyes as he looked up at Andy. “What do you mean, _especially_ this time of year?”

“It’s October,” Andy shrugged. “The time of the year that the veil between worlds has thinned to the point of invisibility.”

“The veil,” Bond repeated, taking another slow sip of scotch. “The worlds?”

“Between the living and the dead.”

Bond’s skin prickled and he closed his eyes against the whispers that seemed to take shape in the air around him. It was one of his family’s favorite things to do — sit around the fireplace on cold winter nights and tell stories of what was hiding behind the veil, just out of sight. MI6 wasn’t the place to discuss such things, but Bond had seen too much, been at the very knife’s edge of death too often (both as its dealer and its near victim) to _not_ believe.

“Never understood that ‘living and dead’ business,” Q said. “Once you’re dead, you’re dead. I don’t believe there’s anything that comes after.”

Nicki turned an inquisitive eye on Q. “But isn’t there? There’s so much this world can’t explain. Isn’t it possible that there may be a world beyond this one?”

Q gave a half shrug, tucked into Bond the way he was. “There’s been no proof that I’ve seen.”

Bond was almost tempted reply — _almost_ — but he took another sip of his drink instead. Q was brilliant at what he did, but he didn’t spend his life in the Reaper’s service like Bond did. He didn’t know. And Bond didn’t want him to know.

He glanced over to find Nicki watching him, her expression as haunted as his thoughts. She looked wary, even _worried_ , as though she knew exactly what he was thinking. It was unnerving to see.

It was only a moment, though, before the look passed, and she turned to smile at Q, her expression now piercing. “Sometimes lack of proof is very nearly proof enough.”

“How do you mean?”

She didn’t immediately respond, her eyes distant, as though gathering her thoughts. “You said that there’s been no proof that you’ve _seen_. Now I suspect you’re a man of science, am I right?”

Q smiled. “Computer science, but close enough.”

Nicki’s brows knitted and a flash of confusion crossed her face, but was gone before Bond could register what it meant. With a smile she continued. “Well, as a man of... computer science, you called it — or any science for that matter — you could concede that since you haven’t _seen_ proof, then you haven’t seen proof either way. Nothing has proven to you the existence of the dead among us, but nothing has proved to you that they don’t exist either.”

Q opened his mouth to respond, only to close it just as quickly. He tried a few more times before finally conceding with a huff. “You might be right.”

Bond bit back laugh at the smug smile she tried — and failed — to hide. Something niggled at the back of his mind and he sipped his alcohol and kept stroking Q, the repetitive motion almost unconscious and soothing. “My parents had similar views to yours,” he mused thoughtfully. He thought about the traditions they used to have to keep the spirits away. Traditions he no longer indulged in. “About October and the shades of the otherworld invading the sunlight of ours. We used to carve turnips and have a bonfire.”

The smug smile never left her face. “Wise parents, yours.”

Bond shrugged noncommittally. He dwelled very rarely on the complicated mess of emotions surrounding his parents, but when he did think about them, the thoughts were very rarely positive. Wise probably wasn’t a word he’d choose to describe them. “So what happens, then,” he inquired instead, “when worlds collide?”

Andy exchanged a look with Nicki, but it passed too quickly for Bond to parse. Instead of chasing it, he looked down at Q, who was eyeing Bond curiously. Q had made clear he didn’t necessarily believe in the supernatural. Maybe he just expected Bond would believe the same.

“It depends on the spirits,” Andy said after a moment. “How they lived, how they died, what sort of unfinished business they had.”

“And if they had any strong connection to loved ones when they left,” Nicki added.

“Loved ones,” Bond repeated, hoping his voice didn’t sound equal parts wistful and disgusted. What would he do if his dearly departed made contact with him? What would M want to say to him? Or Vesper? Or his parents? Knowing his luck, none of them would make it through the throng of vengeful dead ready to tear him down and rip him apart.

“Yes,” Nicki said, knowingly. Her eyes on him were unwavering. “Loved ones.”

“Not too many of those in my life,” Bond chuckled, draining the last of his drink, finding her expression familiar and disconcerting. “And not many of them would come back for any good reason. I think I’m happy to side with Q on this one, for self-preservation more than anything.”

Q nudged him gently. “We all know who the genius is here.”

"Fair enough," Bond said agreeably. He stretched to set his empty glass on the table, then frowned at Q's pained groan when he was shifted against him.

"Time for bed, I think," Bond said ruefully. "Your ribs won't feel better in the morning, I'm sorry to say, but you need rest to heal."

“Sleep is for the weak,” Q groused, even as he learned further into Bond’s side.

Bond laughed quietly as he pulled Q tight to stand up. “My point exactly.”

 

~~~

 

"It isn't much," Andy said again, swiping his cap off in a swift motion that Bond would have jokingly ducked away from if he weren't supporting Q's weight.

“It’s a bed,” Q remarked. “Anything that might get me into a more comfortable position will be more than adequate.” He turned to give Andy a wane smile. “Really, thank you.”

Bond pulled the covers down and stepped back to wait for Q to climb in. Force of habit made Bond ensure that the more valuable target in the room was the most protected one — even if the only protection Bond could muster was Q’s back to the wall and Bond’s body as a barrier to any threat that might make it into the room. Not that the room itself was secure, Bond was frustrated to note. The damn place had several entrances and exits: a door, two windows (both large enough for an adult to enter in through easily), and what looked like a hatch to an attic crawlspace. It would look odd if Bond checked the locks while Andy and Nicki were standing right there, so he busied himself with helping Q until he was free from scrutiny.

Q lowered himself slowly onto the bed, before inching back towards the space Bond had made for him. A low grunt, barely above a whisper, could be heard with each push of his hands against the mattress. After he settled back against the pillows, he turned a disgruntled eye on Bond. “Why is it that I’m the one who hurts _everywhere_ , but you’re the one who got the whiskey?” he asked. “Where is the justice in this world?”

“If you don’t remember the drugs I gave you to combat your pain, than we have a much bigger problem than the inequality of whiskey distribution in this house, Q,” Bond answered. “Genius-level intelligence does nothing to aid liver function, I’m afraid.”

“Of _course_ I remember the drugs,” Q grumbled. He waved a hand vaguely in Bond’s direction. “All I’m saying is, a little whiskey wouldn’t have been remiss. Next time, learn to share.”

“Next time,” Bond agreed, his mouth twitching at the corner as he reached down to pull the blankets up around Q. Q tried to bat his hands away, but gave it up in favor of wincing in pain. “Say goodnight and thank you to our hosts. I’ll wake you up for another round of meds in a few hours, so you might sleep through Andy and Nicki leaving in the morning.”

Q smiled tightly at their hosts. “Thank you, truly. I’m usually—” He broke off with a hiss as he tried to lay down more fully. As he finally settled onto his back, he continued, “I’m usually much better company than this, but as you can see...”

“Don’t worry about it, dear,” Nicki replied with a fond smile, as she gently patted Q on the foot. “I’ve seen this one” — she jerked her head back at her husband — “belly-ache a lot worse over a lot less. You’re fine.”

“I hope you’ll let us repay you for your kindness,” Bond said, settling against the headboard, listening as Q’s breathing slowed. “I don’t have much, but there’s a little in the car, and our employer will be happy to —”

Nicki waved a dismissive hand at Bond, cutting him off. “Oh, no dear,” she said. “You both are injured, and it’s the least we could do. I wouldn’t hear of it.”

Bond watched Andy and Nicki exchange glances, and that unnamable _something_ that had been tugging like snagged thread in Bond’s memory continued to tickle and annoy him. There was something about the looks they shared that meant something, and Bond could feel. Maybe if the damn headache wasn’t so relentless, he could just remember why he knew it…

“At the very least,” Bond sighed, cutting off his own pointless train of thought, “let me replenish your rather excellent supply of scotch.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be opposed to _that_ ,” Nicki said, her hand resting across her stomach as she laughed. “But no. Really, James. We’re more than happy to help.” She glanced at her husband before turning back to Bond. “You need to be protected and it’s...” She squared her shoulders, as though waiting for Bond to contradict her. “It’s our job to do so.”

“Is that so?” Bond asked, cocking his head to the side and looking at Andy and Nicki through narrowed eyes. It was an odd choice, _protection_. Bond had needed help, yes. Shelter. Hot water, Linens. Scotch. But protection? Were they retired agents? Old friends of his parents? Maybe the concussion could be responsible for tampering with his recall, but it seemed unlikely that Bond wouldn’t recognise people he’d met in the past. One reason Bond was so good at his job was because he never forgot a face.   _Ever._ “And why is that?”

Nicki tried to shrug casually, but it couldn’t mask the pain behind her eyes. Without looking away from Bond, she said quietly, “You remind us of our son, is all.”

An irrational surge of guilt clawed at Bond as he nodded. How many times had he dug into his marks’ pasts, trying to find the connection that would provide him with an emotional “in”? Were this another problem, in another mission, Bond would have shamelessly capitalised on Andy and Nicki’s need to project their dead son onto Bond’s face. But he hadn’t done that here, yet, and it felt wrong to do so now. He just wanted to curl up under slightly-dusty sheets and sleep away the weird twilight this night had brought over his mind.

Swallowing, Bond nodded. “In that case, I know you won’t want to hear it, but thank you again for welcoming us into your home and giving us so much help. My friend is very important to me... and our colleagues. You saved me from terrible retribution by letting him stay here instead of allowing him to puncture a lung with a shattered rib on that long drive.”

Nicki looked up, alarmed. “Would that have really happened?”

“He’s not as frail as he looks, but you’d be surprised at all the inventive ways the human body can sabotage itself,” Bond said. The attic hatch was bothering him, so he walked under it on his way to the window, checking the deadbolt in the process. “And that would have been just my luck.”

“It doesn’t open, you know.” Nicki commented from behind, nodding at the attic. “Not when it’s this cold. The wood expands and there is no budging that door.”

Bond thought about all the ‘impossible’ places he’d gotten through, but he smiled at her anyway. He didn’t know what was more maddening — that he had been so blatantly obvious, or that she was so damn observant.

Might as well finish being obvious, then. He completed his circuit of the room, checking the windows before finally sitting on the edge of the bed. “Thank you.”

“You’re just like my husband here,” she said, patting Andy gently on the cheek. Andy rolled his eyes but leaned obviously into his wife’s hand. “He’s just as hyper-vigilant as you.”

“Been in one of the wars, then?” Bond found himself asking, wiggling his toes against the cold wood of the bedroom floor.

“Yes,” Andy responded, with a simple conciseness that Bond immediately knew ended that line of conversation. A sad smile tugged at Andy’s open features. “I’ve quite enjoyed your company, James. I’m almost sad to say goodnight, but I’m sure we’ll see each other again someday. Take care of that young man of yours.” He gave Bond one last warm smile before kissing his wife on the cheek and leaving the room.

“Goodnight, you two. In case we don’t see you in the morning, have a safe drive back.” With that, Nicki turned and followed her husband out.

~~~

The morning brought with it half-remembered birdsong and the scent of a highland sunrise. A cool chill made Bond want to burrow deeper in the blankets — as did the sight of a still-sleeping Q. His face was slack with what looked like quiet slumber; there were no signs that he’d worsened in the night. Bond thought about waking him, but he was just too comfortable. Their legs were tangled together under the quilt, the air was grey with lazy predawn, and he felt _safe_.

The night before came back in bits and flashes, a blur of panic and bandages and, finally, calm. Andy and Nicki didn’t seem any less strange in the daylight; in fact, Bond thought as he shifted under the sheets, they seemed _less_ explainable. Who the hell allowed two bleeding, dangerous-looking men into their house, cleaned and patched them up, and _allowed them to stay overnight_. Highlanders weren’t exactly known for hospitality.

The silence of the house was unnerving, and Bond strained to hear the signs of other life in the house. To hell with his ego; he was just going to have to ask them if they’d met before. Or if they’d known his parents — though, for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why it mattered if it was his parents they knew. It could be anyone he’d had a connection with.

But he didn’t smell coffee or breakfast, and didn’t hear the couple moving around to begin their day. His stomach swooped in disappointment at the thought that they were gone.

Q stirred next to him, burrowing into Bond with a snuffle, an arm slung across Bond’s waist. His head was tucked up under Bond’s chin, and when Q breathed out, the half-sigh tickled the hairs on his neck. He felt his cock stir in his trousers, and he had a momentary flash of rolling over on Q, kissing him deeply. It would be a pleasant distraction from the echoing hollow where Andy and Nicki’s presence had been before.

“What time is it?” Q asked, his voice rough with sleep. Then he froze, his whole body going still. Slowly, he pulled back, untangling himself from Bond. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“Why?” Bond asked and raised a teasing eyebrow. He didn’t make it any easier for Q to pull away, just watched and smiled, at ease in a way he hadn’t been in a long time. “I’m not.”

Q batted lightly at him. “Dirty old man,” he grumbled, despite the easy smile on his own face. He rolled onto his back, but stopped trying to pull away. He took a few deep, steadying breaths as he stared up at the ceiling. After a few moments, he slowly pulled his hands out from under the sheets and stretched them out in front of him. A frown crept across his forehead.

“Now, I understand I’m not accustomed to pain and injury the same way you are, but I have to say, I’m not feeling much in the way of _pain_ anywhere.” He turned to eye Bond warily. “Honestly, I’m no more sore than I would normally be after a night in a bed that wasn’t my own.”

“Oh, really?” Bond let his eyes wander Q’s body, both scanning for injuries and admiring the scenery. “Now that’s an interesting comparison to make while you’ve got _me_ in your bed.”

Q snorted, a wry smile on his lips. “Bond, I doubt there’s anything I could say about a bed that you wouldn’t find interesting.” With a slight grunt, Q stretched again. “If we could set your libido aside for a moment, I’m serious about the lack of pain.” He turned to catch Bond’s eye. “I felt like I was going to die last night, and today — today I feel almost perfectly fine.”

With a frown, Bond rolled onto his side to half lean over Q and gave him a stern look. “Don’t hit me,” he warned, then pushed Q’s shirt up before so he could slide his fingers under the bandages and started pressing on where Q’s injuries had been last night.

He waited for Q to wince and complain. But all he did was hold his breath — presumably _waiting_ for the pain. But there was nothing. When Q finally breathed out, soft and even, Bond knew he wasn’t feeling anything but the pressure of Bond’s fingers.

“See?” Q asked pointedly. “No pain.”

Bond pulled the bandages free and, with gentle fingers, traced the pale, mole-dotted skin that wasn’t the mottled mess it should have been. There was no bruising at all, and his stomach twisted in discomfort.

What the _hell_ was going on?

He frowned and reached up to touch his temple, gingerly at first and then with much more severe pressure when there was no throb or ache under his fingertips. The wound was gone, or had never been there in the first place.

“What the bloody buggering _fuck_?!”

“What? What is it?” A flash of panic crossed Q’s eyes, there and gone.

Bond leaned over Q, searching his eyes and the pallor of his skin for any signs that they’d been drugged. But Q looked, if anything, better than he had when Bond had first loaded him in the car to head to Scotland. His cheeks were flush with warmth, and his eyes were bright with an adequate amount of sleep. Bond thumbed the now unblemished skin over Q’s side again, looking for anything that could explain what Bond saw. He didn’t even have the excuse of a concussion, apparently.

“Well?” Q asked with a huff, clearly getting frustrated at Bond’s lack of response. He too reached up to touch Bond’s temple, and Bond shivered at the light brush of thin fingers. Q’s expression turned inquisitive before a light gasp escaped his lips. “Bond...”

Bond threw off the blanket and stared down at his chest and arms. The cuts he’d suffered had been insignificant but numerous, and now they were gone. “Maybe we were drugged.”

Q snorted. “Bond, you of all people know better than anyone that there are _after effects_ to being drugged.” He rucked up his shirt slightly and glanced down at his own injury-free abdomen before looking back up and catching Bond’s eye. “Can you honestly tell me we would be this level-headed had we been?”

“I’m open to other explanations that don’t include a mutual descent into matching violent delusions,” Bond replied with a raised eyebrow. He gripped Q’s chin gentlyand turned his head from side to side, checking his head, his tracking, his pupil dilation.

“You got whiskey and I didn’t,” Q mumbled as he allowed Bond to work him over. “I’d hardly call that _matching._ ”

Under his hands, Bond registered warmth and a lack of tension. He let his hands rest at Q’s sides, eyes only vaguely focused on Q as he constructed and dismissed a number of scenarios that might explain… fully healed wounds. Inexplicably familiar hosts. Bond losing his damn mind. Maybe it wasn’t Q at all. Maybe the hallucinations weren’t mutual.

“You _were_ hurt,” Bond pressed, meeting Q’s eyes. Bond had seen Q’s injuries for himself… but Q wouldn’t have seen them. “You felt injured.”

Q gave a small shake of his head. “Honestly, Bond, I don’t remember much,” he replied quietly. “I remember the car, and I remember you had blood on your head right there.” He touched the spot again where Bond’s head injury had been. “And I remember brief flashes of being here and our hosts, but that’s it.” He shook his head and glanced around the room. “To be honest, I don’t even remember coming in here.”

The house was still and silent, and Bond shook his head. “Andy and Nicki are gone,” he said. His gut told him that they were friends, not enemies, but he wanted to talk to them. Get their version of it.

Q frowned at him. “Are you sure?”

Bond nodded. “They’ve been gone since before I woke up.”

“Then how do you —” Q shook his head. “Never mind. Should we go then? I’m not fond of the idea of overstaying our welcome.”

“I…” Bond started, then shook his head. He looked down at where his hands still rested over the sharp jut of Q’s hipbones, absently stroking the soft skin with his thumb. He thought about Andy’s knowing smirk and Nicki’s soft smile. “I don’t think they’d mind.”

“What are you doing?” Q whispered, even as he leaned forward into Bond’s touch. His eyes flicked down to Bond’s lips as he added, “We’re in a complete stranger’s house.”

“I don’t think so,” Bond admitted, dragging his thumb just a little deeper into the V of Q’s Adonis Belt, causing Q’s breath to hitch. “I’m pretty sure I knew them.”

Q stilled in Bond’s hands. “Knew them?” His own hands came up to lightly grip Bond by the elbows, his eyes now searching. “What makes you think you knew them?”

“Their names, their faces…” Bond said, thoughtful but slowly becoming distracted by the way the skin under his hands was flushing up. “Some of the comments they made. I knew them, I think, or, more likely, my parents did.”

“Well, wouldn’t that still imply that _you_ knew them? Or are you saying your parents picked up mannerisms from them? I’m sorry, I guess I don’t understand.”

He slowly began to pull back, only for Bond to laugh and pull him closer, his rough hands sure and strong over Q’s lower back and hips. “You do realise that the house I grew up in isn’t far from here? I think they were friends of my parents, and I was too young to really pay them much attention.”

He tucked a stray curl away from Q’s face and behind his ear. Surprisingly, Q leaned into the touch, turning his head to press lips into the palm of Bond’s hand. It wasn’t exactly a kiss, but there was no mistaking Q’s intent.

“We’re still a guest in someone’s house, though. Not that I’m not amenable — actually I’ve always been interested.” He lightly nipped at Bond’s hand before turning to face him again. “But can’t it wait until we’re back in London? You know, where we don’t actually have to worry about being kicked out?”

“Sure.” Bond shrugged. “But first, just in case this is a hallucination…” He leaned forward and brushed his lips over Q’s in a soft, slow slide with only the barest pressure.

Q hummed into the kiss, meeting Bond halfway, but also not pushing any further. He pulled back first, though a tiny smile had already formed where Bond’s lips had been just moments before. “Well, I certainly _hope_ this isn’t a hallucination. It would ruin a host of perfectly good fantasies if it were.”

With a laugh and a mental noteto pursue that line of thought later, Bond captured Q’s mouth for a brief kiss full of promise, only to end it too quickly for Q to object.

“All right, we can go now,” Bond said with a grin, lazy pleasure surging through his body. He pulled back from Q, feeling more content than he could remember being in a very long time.

“How long do you think it will take us to get back from here?” Q asked, his hands slowly sliding down Bond’s arms before he turned to finishing buttoning his shirt up the rest of the way.

“Several hours,” Bond shrugged. He resisted the urge to stop Q’s hands and bury his face in Q’s neck to rub his stubbled jaw over the soft skin there. Instead, he started looking for his shoes with extreme reluctance. Perhaps it was time to consider buying a house out here. Just for those times when he needed a few days after a mission to unwind and find the momentary peace he needed to keep going. He wondered if Q would like that, or if he’d go crazy being in the gloomy countryside.

After slipping his feet into the shoes that had been hiding under the bed, Bond gave one last look at the simple bed and ancient quilt, at the curling edges of the old wallpaper, at the warm brown of the rocking chair and desk. He could picture himself here, just for a stolen moment of silence here and there. But not for long.

That realisation was enough to make him smile with the knowledge that he hadn’t gone _completely_ off his rocker. “Let’s go.”

The house was empty as they walked through it to head back out to the car, chilly and quiet in the unforgiving morning air. The fire was out, not even an ember glowing in the ashy hearth.

When he opened the door to go outside, he found that the deadbolt was thrown, and Bond smiled at the small gesture of safety.

“Despite their protestations, I’m going to leave them some cash as thank you,” Bond said, leaving the door open a crack so he could get back in. “If they don’t like it, they can donate it to charity.”

“I’m amazed they took us in at all,” Q said as he walked towards the car. “I’m still not sure why I’m not in pain anymore, but if the little bit I _can_ recall is correct, we looked less than appealing, even by our standards.” He turned to glance at the house. “It was extraordinarily kind of them.”

“Extraordinary being the operative word, I think,” Bond agreed. He dug the car key out of his pocket and pressed the unlock button, only to grimace at the lack of click in the doors that meant he’d forgotten to lock it the night before. The suitcase with identity papers, cash, extra guns, and a few other bells and whistles was still safely stowed in the boot, though, and Bond pulled out enough money to show gratuity without appearing absurd. He gave himself a moment to be irritated at the lack of envelopes — damn technology — before tearing a sheet of paper out of the graphing paper tablet Q carried around with him everywhere. It would work for an impromptu envelope, and Bond stared at it for a moment, uncertain.

Finally, he scribbled down a simple “thank you” and jotted down his personal mobile number before tucking it all up in one neat little package. He jogged up the steps, set it just inside the threshold, and pulled the door shut. He turned back to Q with a small smile — a genuine smile, perhaps the first he’d ever shared with Q — and waved an arm at the brightening sky. “We should make it back by dinnertime.”

“Oh, thank God,” Q called out as Bond walked back towards him. He shielded his eyes and glanced up. “It is surprisingly a rather nice day, being November now and all. Maybe the drive back won’t so tedious.” He turned back to smile at Bond.

“I suppose that depends on whether you have any music on any of those devices of yours,” Bond said as he climbed into the car. The seatbelt was a little tacky with old blood, but it clicked into place without any trouble. “The last time I came through this part of the country, there were a grand total of four radio stations, and only one of them — Two Lochs — plays music with any regularity.”

Q climbed in and shut the door behind him. “Music or no music, everything feels a sight better than it did last night.” He snapped his own seatbelt into place and turned to settle up against the door, smiling at Bond. “Including the view.”

“If you want to get there by dinnertime,” Bond suggested with a quirked eyebrow, “you probably shouldn’t tempt me.” He grinned, shifted the car into reverse, and started to back slowly out of the driveway.

A gasp had Bond slamming on the breaks, and he looked over to find Q’s eyes wide, staring at something in abject horror, his already translucent pallor bleeding into sheer white.

Sudden, visceral terror tore through Bond as he followed Q’s gaze back to the house. His stomach clenched as he scanned the garden around the cottage for any sign of damaged or broken bodies. The moment he realised they were connected to him somehow, even if it were thirty years ago, he should have left. Left them in peace as thanks for their hospitality and kindness. If Andy and Nicki had come to any harm because of them…

It took a long moment for it to kick in, Bond was so focused on scanning for bodies. As soon as he was satisfied that Andy and Nicki weren’t anywhere in sight, he realised the house was gone.

The _house_ was gone.

The house was _gone_.

What the fuck?

Bond slammed the car in park and threw the door open. Running the last few metres to where the house had been didn’t make it shimmer back into sight, the way homes sometimes appeared from the mist. There was nothing, just a square of barely tamed grass and his envelope, lying untouched on the ground.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. This is our first time writing together, and we couldn't be more proud. Come find us on tumblr at [bootsnblossoms](http://bootsnblossoms.tumblr.com/) and [stephrc79](http://stephrc79.tumblr.com/)


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